


And We All Fall Down

by ghostsandwhiskey



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Eye Trauma, Gen, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Stone Tower of Babel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:32:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsandwhiskey/pseuds/ghostsandwhiskey
Summary: Man is never aware of his folly, his pride, until the Gods strip away all he holds dear. This is the story of a time when Termina still knew prosperity-- before worship turned to blasphemy, and before the snake of corruption wormed its way into the hearts of her people. This is the bloodstained history of Ikana Valley laid bare for the world to see.Heavily inspired by the Stone Tower of Babel theory.





	1. A Shadow on the Horizon

Aranor stood watch at the castle gates between midnight and sunrise. Every day of every month. His presence beside the stone doors that separated the castle of Ikana from the valley itself bordered on a joke— so much so, in fact, that his own squadron referred to him as the _Gate Boy_ more so than they used his actual name. Annoying as it was, however, the young man could not find it within himself to complain. There were worse things in the world to concern oneself with, not to mention gate duty was peaceful, and gave him an excellent view of the statuesque deities roaming across the canyon.

The Giants— Gods, rather— never paid a visit to the valley itself, but their sun-kissed skin stood visible at all times... if one knew where to look. Sometimes they were to the east, and sometimes to the north, but their footsteps gently rattled the earth at all hours of the day. From behind his steel visor Aranor watched, ignorant to the rest of the world around him. How their lumbering figures fascinated him. So different from his fellow Ikanians. The stone statues of the Giants in the castle never quite did them justice, Aranor found.

Perhaps it was the vibrant glow of the real thing in comparison to the dull stone eyes of the statues. Or perhaps his distaste for the stone replicas was due to how many hours he spent here, in this exact situation, watching the Gods until the glow of morning emerged to kiss his haggard eyes.

Aranor drew in a gentle breath. At last he pried his gaze and subsequent thoughts away from the wandering Gods. Instead, he looked to the moonlit valley. The village was quiet tonight, but he could hear the faint sound of battle, clashing swords and the whistle of arrows from the castle turrets. A bleeding comrade would greet him at the gates with the rising sun, most likely. The wounded had a tendency to follow after echoes of combat from further down the valley.

Never anything _too_ serious, of course; the Garo were light on their feet and quick with a sword, but never did they dare overstep their boundaries. No— they simply enjoyed testing the waters, biting at the village’s toes like a pesky fish, before retreating back to their den of lies and scandal.

The more he thought about it, the more Aranor appreciated his post at the castle gates. It was dull. That much went without saying... and the drunkards that occasionally came crashing at his feet were unpleasant, but at least he didn’t stand at the front lines to deal with _those_ hooded monstrosities.

Consumed by his thoughts, Aranor did not catch the parting of the gates behind him. It was a subtle parting, just wide enough for a human figure to slip through. Footsteps, however, caught his attention. Aranor turned to the sight of a short but broad-shouldered woman. “Magdalene?” He greeted her, brows knit together. She was not supposed to take his shift until sunrise— so why was she…?

“The captain wishes to see you,” came her response, curt but dry. Spoken like she had just read his mind. “I’m to cover you until you return. Best hurry— I _would_ like to squeeze in another hour’s rest before taking _my own_ shift out here.” A hand came to rest on her hip, right above a sheathed blade. “Though I’m sure that won’t be happening.”

Day after day after day of standing guard at the gates, and never had the captain once called him out in the middle of the night for an audience. Aranor tugged at the collar of his undershirt, which for some reason now felt much too tight for his liking. He offered his senior officer a nod. Magdalene returned the gesture with a tired wave of the hand— a dismissal— and without a further word, Aranor turned to disappear through the gap in the gates.

Even with the moon hung high in the sky, the castle courtyard bore life. Aranor passed a young man seated on the cobblestone path. The man's face was visibly flushed with effort from scraping filthy attire across the rungs of a washboard.Elsewhere, he could hear the sound of two fellow soldiers sparring. Aranor could only assume it was Garrik and Melinde— the sound of their battle cries were too distinct, the clatter of their blades a tell-tale sign of their unique fighting styles. For half a moment, Aranor debated tracking them down. Perhaps the captain was there with them. No... no, of course he wouldn't be. The captain had far more important matters to attend to. That was an excuse, and Aranor had to remind himself not to cave to his nerves. With the shake of his head, he turned instead toward the barracks.

Whenever the captain requested a personal audience with anyone in the castle guard, it was always held in the barracks, in a tiny side office specifically reserved for his personal use. Today was no different. Aranor stepped into the doorway of said barracks, turned his head, and was at once greeted by the stern expression of Skull Keeta. His lips pursed together and wrinkled eyes watching Aranor like prey.

Soldier's instincts reared their head. Aranor lowered himself into a bow. He stared down at the rotting floorboards, distantly wondering if that was mould or dirt between the cracks in the panels, until he heard the captain bark from across the hall, “At ease.” Only then did Aranor straighten himself up and approach, following Captain Keeta into the dreaded confines of his office. “Close the door behind you,” the captain ordered, though Aranor had every intention of shutting it regardless. Without a doubt, the sleeping forms in the bunks outside were merely faking their slumber— he himself was guilty of that trick, especially when the captain looked particularly displeased at whichever poor soul had earned the honour of a personal meeting with him.

He felt much more pity for those poor souls now, staring down the narrowed amber eyes of a man twice his height. Ribcage could barely contain the rapid beating of his heart, but Aranor shuffled over to stand in front of the captain. Keeta sat on the edge of his desk with thick arms settled across broad chest, and spoke: “Private Aranor Frey. Have you any idea why I’ve called you here today?” At the sound of his name, Aranor felt a need to lower his gaze from Keeta’s eyes to the thick beard of brown hair covering his chin.

“No, captain.” _Keep your replies curt, and your chin high— but not too high._ That was the law of the land for dealing with the captain. Or so he had heard.

“Word gets around, Frey.” Heavy spirits grew lighter, until the captain continued. “Not of any of your accomplishments, of course. I know what they call you around here, Frey. Or should I say, _Gate Boy_.”

There was a silence. With a sudden daring, Aranor lifted his gaze, if only to see if the captain had anything else to say. But the captain’s lips were locked, and eyes fixed upon him. Breathing carefully through his nostrils, Aranor replied, “The nickname is true. I’ve never been assigned to any other post, captain.”

“Then today is a lucky one for you, isn’t it?”

A pang of fear shot through his veins at the captain’s remark. It took every inch of self-restraint he had to conceal it. He was here to be moved— and where else was there to move aside from the front lines of combat? Though his face was straight, panicked thoughts took root in every crack and crevice of his mind. He wasn’t trained for intense combat. Never in his life was he prepped for an altercation with the Garo; what if they snuck up on him? What if _he_ became one of those injured soldiers that limped their way from the mouth of the valley to the castle doorstep?

His lips wagged. “Where will you be moving me, captain?”

“You’re off the gates completely. For now.” Another silence filled the room, long and tense. Prolonged by all the worries coursing through Aranor’s veins. Yet before he summoned the gall to look up again, the captain continued. “Now, I’m sure even a _Gate Boy_ like yourself is familiar with Lieutenant Link. Am I correct?”

A dash of light cut through the darkness in Aranor’s mind. The Lieutenant was not responsible for front line combat at all. No, he was— “He’s the one in charge of security at the tower, isn’t he?”

“Right you are. We’ve been looking for someone who we can move over there for quite some time. The Lieutenant requires an assistant, given the security breaches lately.” The captain rose to his feet, and Aranor’s gaze followed him up. Breath caught in his throat as Keeta reached to clap him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Private. You’ll be moving up there tomorrow, and you’ll be reporting to him from now on.”

Aranor could not help but smile in relief. “Yes, captain. I’m honoured to take on this opportunity.”

“Don’t consider it an honour, private.” At once, Aranor’s smile fell. “The only reason you were chosen above any one else is because we can’t spare any of our more experienced men. Consider it your reward for knowing nothing about sacrifice and bloodshed.”

“Y-yes, captain,” he replied. What else was there to say? Sometimes it was best to keep one's mouth shut, and now was one of those times. Keeta moved to open the door and release him from this meeting. The joy of a village festival paled in comparison to the pleasure he felt at his release. Without meeting the captain’s gaze, Aranor hurried out— and did not look back as the captain closed the door behind him. 

* * *

Never had he set foot within the confines of the mighty Stone Tower before, but Aranor certainly knew what it was. There wasn’t a person alive in the valley that hadn’t looked up and admired the shadow it cast over the village, even as it stood only half complete. Casting one last nervous glance at the village before ascending the ramp to the tower proper, Aranor could not help but recall his first memory of the fortress. How his boyish self stood in awe of it from the doorstep of his tiny hut, never once fathoming that it would eventually become the gigantesque building it was today. Had the Aranor from his childhood seen the tower now, he would have shat himself in amazement— and perhaps a bit of fear, as well. It would be a lie to say this place didn’t intimidate him, a lie to say there wasn’t a faint prickle of dread crawling up his spine.

Hundreds of stories tall, and nearly seventy years old— yet the Stone Tower was far from complete. Anyone who wasn’t intimidated by such a powerful structure would be a fool… or perhaps that was simply what Aranor told himself to excuse the budding pit in his stomach. Running his fingers along the jagged rock walls of the tower entrance, he steeled himself as light from the fortress proper began to grow brighter. There was no turning back now. No running for the captain and begging to be stationed somewhere else.

Stepping out from the tunnel separating the valley from the fortress, Aranor came to a halt at the edge of a wide platform and looked up. The height of the tower was dizzying; he had to crane his neck to even see the tiny figures moving across the top lip of the fortress, and even then, they were mere specks in the grand scheme of it all. Ants atop the biggest and most spectacular creation ever made by Terminian hands.

A sudden vertigo washed over him. Looking down, Aranor squeezed his eyes shut and clamped a hand over his face. The entire world spun around him, and he felt his stomach lurch. Bile crept into his throat, threatening to spray his breakfast across the floor— but mercifully, a voice from above called out to him, drawing his attention away from the impending nausea: “Boy! What business do you have?”

He didn’t dare look up to find the source of the voice. Swallowing his bile, Aranor called back in spite of the weakness in his words: “My name— my name is Private Aranor Frey… the captain… Captain Keeta— he sent me to find the Lieutenant in charge…!”

“Well,” came the woman’s cry in return, “You won’t be getting anywhere down there. Hurry up and get on the lift, boy… I’ll send you up!”

“Right,” Aranor murmured. He pried his fingers from his face and slowly began to open his eyes. At once the nausea struck him like a crashing wave as the stone walls around him trembled dizzily. A stone platform rose from below, and gently he lifted his gaze across to where the woman’s voice came from. He could barely make her own between the spinning and the blurriness of it all, but he could make out a large figure, her hand on a switch, foot on another strange mechanism. Her mouth waggled; it struck him after a moment that she was speaking.

“Boy…? Are you even listening? I have other things I need to be doing!” Even across the gap that separated them, above the echo of construction hundreds of leagues above their heads, he caught the sigh from her lips. “Do I need to send someone down to escort you up?”

“No—“ he knew the crack of his voice was not convincing, but he waved her off nonetheless. One step forward, then the next, he forced himself onto the lift, teeth grit through the lightheadedness that threatened to send him spiralling to the ground. “I’m good…!”

White knuckles clenched the rail of the lift, but the moment the ground beneath him trembled and began to move, Aranor felt his knees give out. Seating himself against the railing, he closed his eyes once more— ignoring the small voice in the back of his mind that begged him to go crawling back to Keeta before it was too late. Surely, even duty on the front lines would be better than this. Surely…

“It’s not so bad once you’re up there, boy.” Her voice was closer now, almost as though she was right beside him. Maybe she was, but he knew if he opened his eyes once more to check, his stomach would give out. So in silence he rode the lift, and in silence he prayed to the Giants over and over to keep his food down.

* * *

 The woman who operated the lift was, admittedly, correct. When the lift jolted to a halt and he opened his eyes, he almost felt normal— so long as he didn’t look down, or look off the edge of the tower. It was windier up here, that much was certain. But other than that, it was life as usual. Men and women and all kinds of people working intently on the structure, hauling rocks up and down on lifts much wider than the one that had taken him to the top. Weak knees barely held his armoured frame up as he shuffled off the lift, sliding past two busy working women as they hauled a boulder past him.

“Excuse me,” Aranor called out to them, though it struck him after they ignored him utterly that perhaps asking two people hard at work for help was not the wisest decision he’d ever made. Turning his gaze away from them, he swept the horizon— only to settle upon one of his own kind, a fellow soldier standing idly at his post. He didn’t recognize the young man’s face, but that was hardly surprising. Anyone stationed at the Stone Tower rarely left; a matter of efficiency and nothing more. After all, what a hassle it would be to send all the workers down into the village for the evening, only to have them all come back up hours later…

“Excuse me,” he tried once more, “I’m looking for Lieutenant Link— I’ve been sent on Captain Keeta’s authority.”

The guard looked at him with blatant concern in his narrowed eyes, brows furrowed together. “Are you quite sure you’re alright? You look awfully pale. Maybe you ought to sit down before you meet with the Lieutenant…”

“I’m fine.” He was most certainly not, but he forced a smile nonetheless.

Somehow it was enough for the guard. “Right, then… you’ll likely find him in the dormitories. If not, then… come see me again. I’ll help you look.” Aranor offered him a curt nod, but just as he was about to turn, the guard abruptly added, “Do try to stay away from the edge of the platforms… just in case you take a tumble.”

His stomach lurched in protest at the mere thought. Aranor’s smile turned to a grimace, and without another word, he turned away— making quite sure he stayed in the centre of the platform all the way to the small entrance in the outer wall that he could only assume led to the dormitories. Very nearly did he push open the door to let himself inside, but it was the sound of a loud voice that brought him to a halt. Turning around slowly, he searched for the bellowing; it was not terribly difficult to find, given how every person in the vicinity had froze in their tracks to observe.

“—Think I want to stay here my entire life, slaving over this tower? What good is it going to do us if we never finish the damn thing?!”

Aranor stepped away from the door and started toward the yelling; poking his head out from behind an idle worker, he could see them. Several feet away stood a Goron— a Goron, of all creatures, making such an ugly ruckus! He never would have imagined; even the way his face contorted as he spoke seemed unbefitting such a peaceful being. Aranor had seen a handful of Gorons throughout his life, and all things considered, this one was not very large for his kind. Nonetheless, it made for an intimidating scene, watching him spit in the face of a young soldier who stood a twig before this creature of jagged rock.

Wait. That was no soldier. Aranor squinted; the robes beneath his armor were gilded, the shield on his back far too ornate for a mere tower guard. No, that had to be…

“I understand your frustration,” came the lieutenant’s voice, calm and oddly patient, “But I don’t have a say in the matter. I’m only following the orders of the king—“

“Igos du Ikana be damned with his tower!” The Goron hissed through clenched teeth, taking a step closer to the lieutenant. Aranor’s pace bordered on a jog now, and he screamed within his head for the lieutenant to draw his sword.

The lieutenant, however, stood still. “I don’t want to do this, Aros. I’m giving you one last chance to get back to work before I have to take disciplinary action.”

It all happened in the blink of an eye. Aranor came to a halt the instant he saw the Goron raise his fist; were he a better soldier, he would have charged for the brute, attempted to knock him away from the lieutenant… yet his legs locked up, and he watched with widened eyes as the lieutenant moved to draw the shield from his back, catching the swing across its mirrored surface with a loud, horrible _CLANG_. The guards lingering at the edge of the altercation rushed forward at once, two reaching to pin back Aros’ mighty arms before he could be given another chance to attack. It took three more to fully subdue the creature, forcing him to the ground as the sharp rock on its back pulsed with an anger _dying_ to be released.

“Lieutenant!” Cried one of the soldiers, above the gnashing of Aros’ teeth. “What should we do?”

Aranor could not see the lieutenant’s face from where he stood, but he could see the rise and fall of his chest, his hand grabbing a fistful of his blonde bangs. He stood in silent thought for a moment, then hung his head. “Hold him in the pits for now. I’ll… I’ll have to deal with this later.”

“You’re nothing but the king’s lapdog!” Screamed the Goron as he was hauled to his feet, “A coward who won’t lift a finger to help any of us!”

“Maybe,” came the lieutenant’s absent-minded reply, before he turned from Aros and started away, toward Aranor himself.

It was the first good look he’d ever taken at the lieutenant— like most other Ikanians, he was a man of olive skin and tall height, but he had features that set him apart in a rather striking way. Blond hair and blue eyes, and pointed ears… for half a moment, Aranor could not help but wonder if the lieutenant was fully Ikanian. He supposed, however, that was irrelevant, and there were much more important things to do than admire the lieutenant from afar.

Rubbing nervously at his palms, Aranor lifted his chin, but not too high. Then, approaching the other in short but quick stride, he raised a hand to his brow in salute. “Lieutenant… my name is Private Aranor Frey—“

“I know,” the lieutenant replied, “I know.”


	2. Golden Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my BBE (best beta ever) Kao. They've already helped me out so much with the fic and I'm only on chapter two. Damn!

Every room in this tower felt small, cramped, stagnant. The rock walls were sturdy but cold, and the fireplace in the far corner of the lieutenant’s office was not enough to keep the chill at bay. From his seat, Aranor watched his superior in silence, waiting for him to stir from his position by the window, waiting for a command. He dared not speak out of turn; despite his distance from Captain Keeta, he at least knew some of the man’s tricks and ticks. Lieutenant Link, however, was a mystery— a shadow who watched over the tower’s construction made flesh to Aranor for the first time. The lieutenant rubbed at the nape of his neck. He huffed a weary sigh, but he did not speak.

Several long moments passed; an ache of discomfort began to fester in Aranor’s ribcage. Was he waiting for him to speak? Was this some sort of initiation, a test? Surely, he would anger the lieutenant for being so bold, but the thought of failing some unspoken rite of passage began to eat at his insides, a worm burrowing through his stomach. Then, at last, he dared a single word: “Lieutenant…?”

“Just… give me a second. To think,” was the man’s only response. He raised a hand to his temple and massaged it gently with his palm. Then, with another heavy sigh, the lieutenant turned on his heel, seating himself behind his desk. There was a weight to his movement, a heaviness in his breath, but Aranor had no intention of inquiring about it. That was not his business, and in any case, he doubted the lieutenant would take kindly to some private nosing about in his business. Captain Keeta never did. So, in silence, Aranor observed the lieutenant as he reached to tie his blond hair back behind pointed ears, better revealing his sunken, tired features.

“So,” the lieutenant said, resting his cheek on his palm, not meeting Aranor’s gaze, “I assume the captain told you why you’ve been sent to assist me.”

“Vaguely, lieutenant—“ Aranor replied, choking on his breath as his superior interrupted him with the shake of his head.

“You can call me Link when the others aren’t around. You and I… we’re going to be working together for a while. I’d rather not let these formalities get in the way.”

Aranor blinked. He couldn’t fathom calling the captain by his name, nor could he entirely see the lieutenant’s gaze to gauge his seriousness. He supposed, however, that it was an order… and orders were to be followed, no matter how discomforting. “Yes, lieu— Link.” He paused, then added, “The captain mentioned a security breach,” Aranor paused once more, hesitant to theorize, but the words slipped his tongue before he could catch himself. “Is it… the workers?”

“No. That’s… another issue in its entirety.” Inhaling through his nostrils, Link ran his fingers through his hair, then leaned back in his seat. At last he met Aranor’s stare, and for half a heartbeat, Aranor could only note how chillingly _blue_ the lieutenant’s eyes were. “We’ve had reports of Garo spies in the tower. There’s not enough men to cover the entire fortress… so we’ve just been keeping watch around areas of active construction. The king…” Link blinked, looking off to one side, “His Majesty wants the problem dealt with as quickly as possible… any spies taken prisoner, if we can manage it.”

Garo spies. Aranor choked on his saliva. Was nowhere in this kingdom safe from those living blights? Coughing, hunched forward in his seat, he imagined coming face to face with one of them, having to deal with their inhuman agility, their sharp blades—

“Are you alright?” Link spoke above the hacking, “Here, drink!”

Aranor looked up, and without a second thought, he took the cup being offered to him. A smooth silver tankard… yet instead of anything intoxicating, Aranor found himself drinking water. Not that he had any room to complain, of course; lowering the cup, he felt his cheeks flush red as he cleared his throat. Stiffly, he held the tankard back to the lieutenant, who now stared at him with lips pursed together, brow quirked as if to ask, ‘are you going to be okay?’.

“ _Spies_ ,” Aranor eventually managed, “have any they… _done anything_ , yet?”

The lieutenant stared at him a moment, mouth slightly agape. Then he shook his head. “No direct confrontation. So far. They’re avoiding it at all costs, actually, which is… unnerving, to say the least.” Moving his elbow from his knee to the arm of his seat, Link drummed his fingers against the wood and cast a weary glance at the heightened ceiling. “Your responsibility here is to help me manage the guard. We need to keep constant rotations, establish a better network of communication, figure out better patrol routes… among other things.”

 _Administration work_. The invisible hand gripping his heart relinquished its hold, and Aranor felt himself breathe clearly for the first time in the better half of a day. That was something he could handle. Something that didn’t directly threaten his life. With a nod, perhaps an overtly eager nod in retrospect, the soldier replied, “Right, yes. I should be able to handle that, lieu— Link.”

“You shouldn’t have too much trouble dealing with the guards. They’re mostly just… tired.” Link rose to his feet with a heavy exhale, ruffling the back of his head before reaching for the ornate helm on his desk. Donning the headpiece, the lieutenant then slowly crossed the room, stooping to grab his shield off a side table before making his way to the door. It was quite a beautiful shield, Aranor noted— he hadn’t the chance to get a good look at it until now. A brass rim, gold decor and a smooth, shiny surface. It was almost as though the shield could double as a portable mirror. Did the lieutenant keep it in impeccable condition, or was it built that way?

So many questions, and not the place to ask any of them. Aranor lifted himself from his seat, assuming by the lieutenant’s cock of the head that he wished for him to follow. Gently, Link closed the door behind them both, turning on his heel to start off in militant stride toward the unknown. Unknown for Aranor, in any case— this place was a maze, with dark walls and darker ceilings that looked all the same. As they walked, he could not help but glance out the windows that lined every corridor; square blocks cut from the rock with no glass pane to separate the inside from the elements outside. It was only the lieutenant’s voice that stirred him to his senses, and with a blink, Aranor glanced back to his superior.

“A word of advice,” he said, blue eyes staring distantly ahead, “If any of the workers confront you… don’t try and handle them yourself. Direct them to me. It’ll be easier that way.”

 _I had no intention of dealing with them on my own_ , Aranor nearly said, though he kept that little thought to himself. Thus in silence they left the inner barracks, stepping out once more into the waning light of day.

 

* * *

 

The job was simple enough; it was a mere matter of relaying messages between the lieutenant and all the men under his charge. Aranor could handle that without a single problem, so long as he made sure his gaze didn’t stray whenever he approached a guard stationed near the edges of the tower. To think he had wanted to stay so badly at the gates— such a thought seemed laughable now! At least here, there was an excellent view of the heavens above, and a lot more hustle and bustle than he’d ever witnessed standing guard from dusk to dawn at the castle’s imposing stone walls.

Today, of course, there would be no playing messenger… no, his sole duty for the rest of the evening was to accustom himself to the upper floors of the tower, introduce himself to the appropriate people, and then to retire for the evening. As he meandered through the interconnected stone passages, Aranor could not help but favour the lieutenant. He was a good man— much kinder and much more patient than Keeta, in any case. Not to mention oddly striking, with those fierce blue eyes among the hazels and browns of most Ikanians…

Approaching a staircase, Aranor became abruptly aware of a distant, but peculiar sound. With one foot on the first step, the soldier froze, lifting his head to better catch the noise. It was almost familiar; a voice, perhaps. Though if it was a voice, it was an angry one, enough to echo through the halls and meet his eardrum from afar. Drawn to it like a moth to light, he descended the stairs, pace quickening as soon as he realized he was headed in the right direction, angry cries strengthening with his every step.

He rounded a corner and stammered to a halt. Several feet away stood a flock of soldiers, some looking as though they were on duty, others chatting amongst themselves, leaned casually against the walls and against their spears. Only one sensed his presence, but that was all it took; one glance in his direction, and all eyes were on him. “Restricted area, soldier,” one of them called out, hand cupped around their mouth.

For once in his life, the tickle of curiosity in the back of his throat outweighed the trembling of his heels. Swallowing thickly, Aranor took a step back and called back, albeit much more meekly: “I have permission to access all areas of the tower… from the lieutenant. I’m… I’m his assistant.” It wasn’t a lie. Though if he were being completely honest with himself, it would have been best to turn around and ask the lieutenant next time he was around…

“His… assistant?” There was a pause. He turned to the soldier next to him. “I think I’ve heard something about that,” Aranor faintly caught, before the man turned back and replied, “Alright, then.”

There was no turning back now. Nodding, Aranor started toward them, his gait stiffening the closer he got to the group. He could feel the eyes on his neck as he passed, watching him as he left, and it came as a great relief to turn another corner and escape their vigilant gazes. Though that relief lasted for but a moment as his heart leapt into his throat, realizing that the path abruptly came to a halt, dropping off into what appeared to be a black nothingness.

A black nothingness with a voice that spoke to him in a booming yell: “What, you’re actually going to listen to me, this time?! Or have you just come to sit and watch?!”

Aranor’s jaw wagged uselessly— with ginger steps, he edged away from the end of the path. His senses returned to him after a second, and it was then he lunged to grab a mounted torch, crouched by the black pit below, and waved the flame over it. There was a silhouette down there, just out of reach; a girthy silhouette, with a jagged back and round, portly stomach. He recognized this Goron, the one that had caused the scene, and he had to admit, the creature was much more intimidating with his bared teeth and blue eyes cast in shadow than he was up on the surface. Had he not recognized the Goron’s distinct frame, he would have assumed the creature below a monster, ready to catch his throat between his pointed molars and crush his windpipe whole.

“Bah! I see how it is!” The Goron— Aros, was his name, wasn’t it? In any case, the Goron’s eyes shone defensively, and though Aranor did not mean to, he felt himself lean away from the pit. “You’re a coward and a fool like all the rest! Blindly following your king off the bridge he’s built for himse—“

“Would you shut up?!” A new voice broke from over Aranor’s shoulder, and he leapt. Spinning around, he watched the guard who had spoken to him earlier retrieve a piece of debris from the ground, and without hesitation, threw it hard at the Goron’s dark silhouette. “By the four gods, I swear I’ll go deaf from your yammering!”

Nearly did Aranor turn back to the Goron, but before he had the chance, the soldier grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back several steps. Leaning in close, the young man murmured: “You tell the lieutenant that something needs to be done. _Now_. Aros, he’s got the others worked up, and if he waits any longer to take action…” The man’s eyes were hard, and his grip even harder. “And by now, I mean _this instant_. Tell the lieutenant this is _urgent_.”

The evening had been going so well. “I…” Aranor began, but his words would not meet his tongue. “I… what’s going on? What’s going to happen?”

“You give these people an inch, and they run for a mile. That’s what’s going on.” Reaching for the torch in Aranor’s hand, the guard pried it effortlessly from his grip to remount it on the wall. Gesturing in the direction he came with the tilt of his head, he added, “Tell him Gwenevere overheard the ladies on hauling duty this morning. They’ve got a plan to get weapons. That’s all he needs to know right now. Get the lieutenant down here, and I’ll explain the rest.”

Aranor could not find the words to respond. This— an urgent run to the lieutenant— this wasn’t part of his evening plans whatsoever. Voice lingered on the tip of his tongue; the other stared with widened, harsh eyes, speaking to him with his gaze alone. _Well? Get a move on!_ With no other option, he turned on his heel and started back, the guard at his heels. Pace quickened at the sight of the gaggle of armoured men and women clogging the corridor, but somehow, even through the fog that had abruptly clouded his mind, he distantly heard the sound of conversation over his shoulder.

“Did you explain…?” It was a woman’s voice.

“Yeah, he knows. He’s going to see the lieuten— Gwen!”

The rushed clatter of metal rapidly approaching him from behind brought Aranor to a halt. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he instinctively whipped around on his heel as a young female soldier, dressed like any other, jogged up to his side. Though her features stood mostly concealed by the darkness of the inner tower, Aranor could make out the striking color of her eyes; a pale, watery blue that immediately reminded him of the lieutenant’s gaze. Her lips, thin and drawn taut, parted as she announced, “I’m coming with you.” Then she turned, sharply at that, to her idle companions. “Take care of yourselves. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

One gave her a half-hearted wave, but Aranor’s absentminded gaze was torn at once from the flock of guards toward the young woman, Gwen, as she started off in the direction he’d been heading. There was no time to waste, and without a second thought, Aranor left in pursuit of her, the dull murmur of conversation and the roar of an angry captive fading behind him. Her pace was quick, but not quite a full run. This time it was Aranor himself jogging to her side, though she paid him no mind as she slid from the inner tower to the outer platforms.

He could not help but examine her as she stepped into the moonlight from the shadows. Though she had those peculiar blue eyes, there was nothing else as striking about her, unlike the lieutenant himself. Her hair was a soft, auburn brown— typical for an Ikanian, and her face harboured the white tattoos that most Ikanian warriors proudly possessed. Two white strips beneath each eye, a strip trailing from her chin down her neck… as well as a pointed triangle on the bridge of her nose, he noticed as she turned to address him once more. “I have an idea of where the lieutenant might be. He’s often in the temple at this time in the evening.”

Aranor did not reply. Struggling to match her pace, he merely listened as she continued: “I _am_ sorry for intruding on your walk. I simply figured… well, you’re new to the tower, and this is the kind of news that one had best not wait to deliver.” A pause, before she turned her head and offered him a curt nod. “My name is Gwenevere. I wasn’t sure if Talian had said anything about me to you…”

“No,” Aranor said at last, “No, he did. I’m… Aranor. Aranor Frey.”

Gwenevere looked firmly ahead. “A pleasure to meet you. If only the situation weren’t so… tense. Perhaps then, the pleasure would extend beyond mere formality.”

Her words, however, seeped through one ear and out the other. Aranor could feel her unconsciously moving from the middle of the platform toward the inner edge, pushing him closer and closer toward the tangle of lifts in the tower center— and more importantly, pushing him toward the great black abyss that would surely result in his ugly demise if he misstepped. Abruptly, he came to a halt, stiffly shuffling around her to stand on her other side. He could feel the weight of her sideways glance on his face, the chill of her pale eyes against him, but it was better than the gnawing emptiness in his stomach, and much better than accidentally peering off the edge.

Thankfully, she said nothing, and pressed onward.

Aranor noticed their destination far before they reached it. It was hard _not_ to notice, actually, and he was quite surprised with himself for not seeing it the moment he took his first step off the lift. Though many of the chambers within the tower were built directly into its outer walls, the temple stood alone, atop the outer platform. Strangely round, covered in hand painted designs that shimmered in the blue of the moon, it struck him that the temple was designed to appear like a _face_ — a familiar face, at that. Perhaps it was meant to look like one of the Giants? That much would make sense. It was no secret how desperately the king adored the Giants, how they protected this land…

Maybe it was simply from having observed the Giants in action, day in and day out, but it looked nothing like them if that was the intent. He kept that thought to himself, however, as they drew near to the entrance — stepping onto the Giant’s tongue and entering through his wide, open mouth, into the belly of the beast.

His first instinct was to stop dead in his tracks. Gwenevere continued forward, but he could not bring himself to move. The inner sanctum of the temple was round and without ceiling. The stars peered down at him, casting long, rich shadows around every corner, but also illuminating the finely engraved walls around him. There was no doubt in his mind that this temple had been erected in honour of their four, glorious Gods— the engravings, he noticed at once, told a long and elaborate story. It would take days, weeks, perhaps to read it all, but the long legged figures depicted on the walls told him that these were the exploits of the Giants, and nothing more. Even the floors, though not as finely detailed, were painted in bright patterns.

And then there was the altar before him— a large, clearly unfinished face, half plated in gold, partially made of wire frame where more rock needed to be hauled. Aranor felt himself drawn toward the image. The sounds of his scuffling footsteps echoed dully in his ears; all that mattered in that moment was the visage that stared down at him, one golden eye watching him keenly, as though to judge his every motion.

“Lieutenant…!”

Aranor blinked, then blinked again. With reluctance he pulled himself away from the divine statue, turning to a much smaller, less extravagant image— the sight of Gwenevere approaching Link, who sat kneeled in the corner of the room, visibly stirred from his prayers. _Strange_ , Aranor thought. Why pray in the corner of the room, when such a glorious altar stood mere feet away? Still… casting one final glance of longing at the face, he started over to them.

“Yes? Is something wrong?”

The face beckoned to him. Aranor stole another glance as he walked. Then he froze, gaze flicking from the golden eye to the wall opposite from where he stood. He could have almost sworn he’d seen something move.

“Lieutenant, we have an issue that requires immediate action. It’s about the women assigned to section eleven.”

He stared, and he stared, but the wall was still. A mere trick of the light? It had to be. Aranor turned, hungrily snatching one final look at the half-gold visage. It was such a beautiful, beautiful statue. Gleaming so brightly beneath the stars…

“Aranor.”

He nearly leapt at the call of his name. Spinning around, his gaze met the lieutenant’s, now unfurled to his proper height. Gwenevere watched as well, but there was something about the lieutenant’s eyes, something bold and fierce; a gaze that simply commanded respect. There was, however, an unmistakable glint of fatigue in his blue hues. “Yes?” Aranor replied.

Link ran his fingers through his hair, and sighed heavily. “I hope you didn’t have any intention of sleeping tonight. You and I have work to do.”


	3. An Eye for an Eye

How desperately Aranor longed for rest. A warm, cozy bed, or even a mat on the floor… at this rate, he felt his chair would be quite sufficient for a solid nap. If only the raging voices behind a nearby door would stop, and the tickle of anxiety in the back of his throat would subside. Dragging his fingers through his hair, Aranor leaned forward in his seat, hiding his face from Gwenevere, who sat across from him with a plain-faced stare. Every so often her pale hues turned to the door, but for the most part, she stared at the table, or even in his direction, directly through him. “Aren’t you tired?” He asked at last, voice muffled by his palm.

“We’re on a strict schedule here,” she replied, “The tower guard aren’t quite as pampered as those stationed in the castle, unfortunately for you.”

Her voice carried a hint of a teasing tone, but the weight of fatigue on his shoulders was too much to force a smile. Aranor shifted his weight, rubbing at his eyes. “Thank you for helping me get everyone together,” he said, calling Gwenevere’s attention away from the door.

“This is a serious issue. The sooner it’s dealt with, the better… I figured you wouldn’t know the place well enough to do the job quick enough. Though I don’t mean to be impolite…”

“No, it’s fine.” Aranor laughed an empty laugh, a hollow laugh. Wandering eyes turned toward the windows of the room; pale rays of pink light had already begun to creep in from behind the horizon. Part of him wondered whether or not he would be allowed to rest, after this was all over and dealt with. He couldn’t imagine the lieutenant forcing him to stay awake. Then again, Gwenevere was right. This place was new to him. It was a far cry from the castle, and his relaxed evening shifts.

An uncomfortable silence fell once more between them. Though his mind longed to be absent, he could not help but drink in the loud conversation that could not be contained by the meeting room beyond the wood door. He didn’t know the names of the high ranking soldiers he’d been told to collect, but he knew them well enough to imagine a face for each voice. The one who was presently speaking was a spindly man, with a high arched nose and a neatly shaved head. Each and every word from his mouth rang clear in Aranor’s ears: “Are we done arguing about this? How many times do we have to say it?! If someone doesn’t remind these whelps who is in control, it’s only a matter of time before they cause serious damage!”

The next was a woman, with naturally narrow auburn eyes. She was loud too; in fact, he would dare say she was even more commanding than the first man. “The king would have us _dead_ were something to happen to this tower, lieutenant. My head, his head, and _your_ head, too! Is that what you want?”

Whoever came after her— the lieutenant, he assumed— was quiet. Aranor made out a murmur, and nothing more.

“Then we have an agreement? All you have to do is say yes, and we’ll get everything in order.” It was the first man again, though his voice had dropped from a yell to a militant reply.

“I think they’re almost done,” Gwenevere said. It took him a moment to realize that she was beside him, and not within the meeting room as well. Prying his gaze away from the door, he looked to her with jaw half-agape, then promptly mimicked her as she pushed back her chair and rose to her feet.

The young woman had an impeccable sense of timing. As they moved, the screech of moving chairs and shuffling boots came from the other chamber. Double doors slid open, and a flock of soldiers, all of higher rank than both he and Gwenevere combined, flew past them in quick stride. Aranor watched them as they went, and from the window he could see them heading in different directions, most looking as though they had a place to be, important things to be doing.

Lieutenant Link himself was the last to emerge from the meeting room, gripping the side of his head with one hand, bracing the door frame with the other. He did not meet Aranor’s gaze; blue hues were much more interested in the dirt-covered tiles beneath his feet. Lips parted, and a soft exhale played herald to the lieutenant’s voice. “I’ll show you to your quarters after this is over,” he murmured. Aranor glanced over at Gwenevere, who promptly shook her head. Was the lieutenant referring to him?

Either way, he hadn’t any time to answer. Lifting himself from the wall, the lieutenant shuffled by. Gwenevere followed at his heels, her pace light and ghostly in comparison to Link’s heavyset footsteps. There was nothing else to do but trail after them both— even when a ghastly noise erupted above his head, he continued behind them, though he searched feverishly for the source of the wailing.

The warm rays of the sun met his skin. Trailing along the innermost half of the outer platforms, Aranor at last found the noisemaker, standing atop a platform near the temple mouth. It was a Goron, young and spry, bearing a horn no larger than his arm… and yet the scream that came from the horn’s lips echoed far and wide through the tower, a bastardized rooster’s crow.

“You’ll get used to it,” Gwenevere murmured, in the brief silence between the blares.

As they walked, Gwenevere abruptly came to a halt. Without warning, she reached for his sleeve, pulling him gently to a halt rather than allowing him to follow after the lieutenant. Aranor looked to her for an explanation; the word ‘why’ hung on his lips, but she stared ahead, resting both hands on her scabbard. Shifting from foot to foot, Aranor glanced around. It did not happen immediately, but it happened nonetheless quicker than he expected— a slow trickle of workers began to pour forth from the inner tower. First it was the Gorons, with the occasional Ikanian among their ranks. Then the guards between each wave, the group amassing along the platform with sleep in their eyes and a slow, tired gait. Some settled beside them, while others chose distant, quieter spots, but the group shared one common trait: nearly each and every worker watched the mouth of the temple, and the lieutenant seated on the giant’s tongue.

Gwenevere leaned in as the murmurs of conversation around them began to spike. “This is normal,” she said, “but that—“ Aranor followed her pointed finger to a small group, circling around the back of the temple toward the front, “ _that_ is not.”

He had to squint, at first. Then the group stepped out from the curtain of shadow cast by the temple’s ominous form and into the light, revealing a struggle. It was the Goron, Aros— hauled forward by the efforts of three, four soldiers. Idle conversation ceased at the snap of a finger, the echoing grunts of a hostage worker. The tower was still. The atmosphere was still, and Aranor knew that today, the final blaring of the horn at the front was not necessary. The crowd’s eyes latched on to the temple, the lieutenant, and the gaggle of struggling guards.

Link stood at their approach. He took a step back, allowing the others the space they needed to force Aros to his knees. Aranor listened to the distant gnashing of teeth, his spine stiffening. Warily, he stole another glance at Gwenevere, but she stared forward, eyes vacant, lips unreadable. The silence in the air was overwhelming— an invisible hand that gripped his throat and choked him slowly. There was nothing, not even the crow of birds or the rustling of grass.

Nothing, until the lieutenant spoke. “There’s a matter that needs attending to before we begin the new day,” he boomed, a far cry from the tired voice he took with Aranor, “There’s been whispers of dissent among you. Whispers that you aren’t pleased with the way things are run around here. Is this true?”

No one dared reply.

“His Majesty— our beloved King, Igos du Ikana— he has treated you well. Far superior than any of the workers managed by his predecessors. Unlike them, you are paid, given rest, _food_ … not to mention kept safe from the evils of the world, the evils of warfare.” It struck Aranor that despite the power in the lieutenant’s voice, there was something amiss. Almost as though the lieutenant’s words were stiff, _scripted_. “If our King knew of the treachery you and your comrades have considered committing, you can be most sure he would not offer you the same kindnesses he offers you presently.”

The loud man from the meeting room, his thin, reed-like posture recognizable even at a distance, approached the lieutenant, offering him a large iron gauntlet. Link hesitated before he donned it. Then, drawing near to Aros, he knelt to lay his armoured hand atop the Goron’s pinned head. “Let this be a warning to you all! The luxuries you revel in can— and _will_ — be stripped away from you. His Majesty, our King, demands blood for blood from those who intend to do him harm. An eye for an eye.”

It was almost impossible to see from where he stood, and the guards who held Aros seemed to realize that. With effort, they hauled the Goron’s head up, holding him by the hair for the crowd’s viewing pleasure. The lieutenant stood rigidly at the struggling creature’s side, moving his hand from Aros head to his cheek, thumb hovering just beneath his eye. Aros roared, but Link’s stare was vacant, the iron nail of his gauntlet hovering ever closer to his one tender weak spot, unprotected by rough rock skin.

He was going to drive his finger straight through Aros’ eye.

Then, abruptly, the lieutenant reeled his arm back. Fingers clenched into a solid metal fist, and he drove it into the Goron’s cheek, metal scraping against rock with a loud, terse whine. Aros’s head slipped from the hands that were holding it, and his skull slammed into the ground from the sheer force of the blow. Aranor noticed, breath caught in his throat, that chunks of the Goron’s head lay scattered across the tongue of the Giant, torn from his cheek, his temple.

Hand still coiled tight, the lieutenant stepped back. He stared at the downed Goron, then turned back to the silent, observing crowd. “Let this be a warning. A slap on the wrist.” Link drew in a breath. “You have twenty minutes to say your morning prayers and collect your morning rations. We expect you all to be hard at work within the half hour.”

The guards released Aros, but the Goron made no effort to rise to his feet. Legs writhing as though they sought out some kind of foothold, he clutched at his shattered face with both hands. Barely did Aranor register the lieutenant’s voice as he finally announced, “ _Dismissed_!”

No one moved. Not at first— blinking himself out of his stupor, Aranor turned from the scene ahead to observe the people around him. Certain faces stood out in the crowd. An older Ikanian man, hands pressed to his mouth. A younger woman with a babe strapped to her back, holding another woman in comfort. Slowly, those faces began to drift away, spurred on by the guards scattered amongst their ranks. Aranor didn’t move. His gaze drifted to two large figures moving opposite the crowds. Gorons, pushing through the workers to meet their injured brother. The soldiers near the lieutenant attempted to move forward, to block their progress, but Link shook his head, lips moving in a silent command that Aranor could not hear above the dispersing workers. The soldiers stepped back, though not before exchanging a glance at one another.

“Aranor,” Gwenevere murmured. Her voice was static in the back of his mind until she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure the lieutenant has work for you. You shouldn’t… shouldn’t waste any time.” Bowing her head curtly, the young woman backed away from him and added, “You and I have responsibilities to uphold as well.”

With that, she spun on the heel of her boot. There was no goodbye as she left, no looking back. Aranor stood by his lonesome, and watched as Gwenevere tucked her hair back behind her ear— _pointed_ ears, he duly noted— before stepping into the darkness of the inner tower. It struck him at once, how disorienting this place felt without a guide at his side, and Aranor barely restrained himself from calling after her. As loathe he was to admit it, she was right. They had work to do… and Gwenevere was hardly responsible for babying him.

Aranor rubbed at his shoulder, then set off toward the temple mouth. Link stood to one side, arms folded across his chest, no longer bearing the thick iron gauntlet. The spindly man from the meeting room stood eerily close to him, well clearing the lieutenant’s height, staring down at his face. Even as Aranor came closer, the man’s words were indecipherable whisperings, overshadowed by the grunts of the Gorons helping their wounded colleague away.

He caught a glance from the lieutenant— and a look of visible relief dawned upon Link’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said to the spindly soldier, “I understand your concern, but now isn’t the time.” Sidestepping out of the soldier’s shadow, Link gestured for Aranor to come over. “Tonight. I promise, we’ll figure something out.”

The man’s heavy glare flicked between Aranor and the lieutenant. “Damn right we will,” he muttered under his breath. Aranor did not expect him to then march away, nor did he expect the man to knock into his shoulder as he passed, sending him stumbling from the sheer power of the blow. Widened eyes followed him as he continued on his way; then, remembering why he was over here in the first place, Aranor turned to Link.

“You deserve a break,” the lieutenant said, hand pressed to his temple, eyes squeezed shut. “I’ll show you to the barracks. You can sleep while I… clean up the rest of this mess.”

At the word ‘sleep’, Aranor perked. Yet there was a part of him keenly aware of the shadows in the lieutenant’s gaunt features, the way his blond brows pinched together so intensely. “Thank you, lieutenant,” he replied, though he could not help but think… _when are_ you _going to take a break for yourself?_

 

* * *

 

When aching eyes parted, the barracks were dark, and rather than silence, Aranor could hear quiet words exchanged between nearby individuals. Coiling up beneath threadbare sheets, he wondered how long he could get away with sleeping before the lieutenant came calling on him. Long and hard he thought, staring blankly at the bottom of the top bunk above his head. In the end, however, he concluded that it would be best not to abuse the lieutenant’s trust. He was a good man— far more kind than Keeta, and it would do him no good to get on Link’s bad side. What other superior officer would allow him to rest while everyone else worked? Not very many, that much was certain.

Aranor wiped the sleep from his eyes and sat himself up. The bed creaked and groaned beneath his weight, and he could feel a faint prickle of discomfort in his shoulder blades. To think he complained about the barracks in the castle, when this existed… shaking his head, he slipped his feet into his boots and began to lace them up, when a vaguely familiar voice met his ears: “Look who’s finally up.”

Eyes flicked to the source of the sound, where two young men sat on the edge of a bunk by the room’s sole torch. It took him a second, but Aranor knew one of the men— the one who had spoken to him in the darkness last night, who instructed him to find the lieutenant…

“…Tolian?” He asked, attempting to remember the name Gwenevere called him by.

“ _Tal_ ian,” the young man deftly corrected him, “Have a nice nap?”

Continuing to lace up his boots, Aranor nodded. The corner of his lip twitched upward into an absentminded smile. It was nice to take a nap, though the blankets were thin and his stone surroundings cold as Keeta’s heart.

“That’s good. Bet you feel like a brand new man, while I had to go and wipe up the heaping _shit_ Aros smeared over the pit walls last night.”

Aranor tensed. Glancing up at the two, lips parted, and he stammered: “Wh—“

“If anyone deserves a day off, it’s damn well _me_. Labouring in those dark pits all day, dealing with the rowdy lot that gets thrown in to them. Not some damn messenger boy who just crawled in the other morning…”

The man beside Talian leaned forward. “Tal, I’m annoyed just as much as you are, but maybe you should lay off—“

“Shut up, Gonovo,” Talian replied, rising to his feet. Reaching to pick up the shield propped up against the torch, he shot Aranor a narrow-eyed glare. “At this rate, the lieutenant will let you crawl into _his_ bed tomorrow night. Should be proud of yourself, messenger boy. Not everyone can suck up to their leaders like you, apparently.”

Talian’s hard stare lingered on him, though he then rolled his eyes and turned to storm from the room. Gonovo scratched at the back of his head, glancing over at Aranor before wordlessly following after his companion. A hot flush crept into Aranor’s cheeks, spreading down to the nape of his neck. Maybe it _had_ been a poor idea to accept the lieutenant’s offer. How many other soldiers saw him while he slept? Did they all feel that way? Could he _blame_ them…?

Questions plagued his mind, one after the other, following him as he made his bed and hurried out the door, adjusting the sheath of his blade around his hips as he went. There was no time to dawdle, and more importantly, he wanted to be long gone from the barracks before any other soldier arrived. With quickened step he jogged along the platforms, scanning his surroundings for the lieutenant— or anyone who might know where the lieutenant was. Construction had clearly finished for the evening; the sounds of hammering and the lifts whirring up and down the tower were absent, and the only people outside were two labourers who both cast him wary glances as he passed. Were they not allowed out at this hour of the evening? Part of him suspected not, and he vowed to learn these rules and nuances as soon as possible.

His mind worked to remember where exactly the lieutenant’s office was situated, but it was instinct that directed him into a particular inner corridor.Steps guided by what little moonlight leaked through the windows, and the occasional torch, he flew down empty hall after hall, and it was not until he turned down a passage with no windows that a hint of panic began to set in his bones. This place was a maze— a dark, cold, empty maze— and he hated it.

Yet somehow he found the determination to press forward, certain the lieutenant’s office was nearby. Soon the sole source of light in the corridors were the wall mounted torches, placed far too sporadically for his liking. Was he descending the tower? Aranor glanced over his shoulder, at the maw of darkness he’d already traversed. His gut sank, and he debated whether to head back or not. What if he went down a different passage by accident, though, instead of backtracking…?

This place was all the same. He despised it, and the sinking pit in his gut agreed. Cold fingers of fear began to tickle his shoulders, his biceps. What if he got lost? Surely, if he went far enough, no one would be able to find him. His throat began to tighten, and as he continued, Aranor began to drum along the back of the gauntlet on his opposite hand.

It was the sound of voices that brought relief to his panicked bones. Distant voices, unintelligible at that, but voices nonetheless! Aranor’s pace grew hurried. Corridors turned to small, interconnected chambers, and it was further down the row of rooms that he spotted the silhouette in the doorway, picked up some of the vocal nuances. The words were still too hushed to make out, but there was something strange about one of the voices. Low and gravelly in his ears, as though their throat was pressed to a grater…

“Gwenevere?” Aranor called out as he approached. His guess was correct— the figure spun around, and the dim light of a mounted torch was more than enough to uncover the sheet white tattoos painted across her cheekbones. Brows arched, lips thin, she stood in awed silence while Aranor drew closer.

“What are you doing down here? It’s… it’s close to midnight. Shouldn’t you be…?”

“I got lost,” he admitted, looking sheepishly to one side, “I don’t suppose the lieutenant’s office is this way.”

“I…” Gwenevere’s lips bobbled, as though she sought words that she could not find, “No. This is the lowest section of the tower anyone is permitted access. His office is barely a minute’s walk off the platforms, Aranor…”

“Right,” he replied, biting his lip. Barely a minute’s walk. That should have been child’s play for him to locate. Nervously, he turned to leave, but curiosity pushed his anxieties aside. Glancing back at Gwenevere, he craned his neck to steal a peek over her shoulder. “Ah… who was it you were talking to?”

Gwenevere furrowed her brows and blinked. “Me? I wasn’t… I wasn’t talking to anyone. I take my patrol alone.”

“I thought I heard another voice, though,” Aranor muttered. His cheeks began to flush with warmth again.

“You might have…” she started, promptly correcting herself, “You might have heard me singing to myself. My shifts are long… I can’t help myself, sometimes. Just don’t share that bit of information with anyone, please.”

It didn’t sound like singing, but Aranor did not bother correcting her. No doubt she was right, and he had no intention of embarrassing himself any further tonight. Nodding slowly, he turned to leave, to say goodbye, but a sigh cut his words short.

“I’ll walk you back to the upper levels. Wouldn’t want you getting lost again.” Gentle steps ushered Gwenevere past him, and like a baby cuccoo, Aranor followed. “But again… I’ll have to ask you to keep this our little secret from everyone. The lieutenant wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I wasn’t keeping watch like I should be, and if that were the case, then I would have to put the blame on you.”

Gwenevere shot him a cheeky smile. Aranor gave a small laugh in return.

It was going to be a long night.


	4. Omen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone ever just decide to come back to a fanfiction nearly 2 years later? I do.

Between the glowers he garnered from the tower labourers, and the stink eyes from soldiers who had caught wind of his specially issued rest, Aranor was all too happy to take on the responsibility of an incoming supply shipment from the valley. A menial task for sure, but at least the villagers from below looked at him with disinterest. They hardly spared him a passing glance, except for when he had to ask them to move so he could properly take inventory of the boxes they were leaning against. Cuccos to be slaughtered for the soldiers, salted meats and ingredients for bread to serve to the masses. Nothing for the Gorons— they ate what was hauled up from the bottom of the tower. Aranor had learned the other evening that they were never too happy about their meals. Complaints that the rocks from below tasted strange, almost repulsive. How could a rock taste different from any other, though? Besides, he could understand the efficiency in the system. So many rocks must have fallen over the course of the years… why not clear them out and feed the workers at the same time?

Maybe they got stale with age. Rocks, going bad like fresh meat or eggs… it was a peculiar thought. If the Gorons didn’t intimidate him so, with their suspicious glares and hulking bodies, he might have asked them by now. The soldiers weren’t much help, shrugging off such inquiries with a ‘who cares’, but Aranor’s curiosity persisted.

“Are you almost done?” One of the village workers asked. She leaned her head back against a crate, eyes rolled upward with a clear impatience for Aranor’s careful pace. “By the four gods, I’ll be dead by the time I’m allowed to go home.”

Being the subject of complaint was never a good feeling, but disappointing a villager was nothing compared to the potential sting of disappointing the Lieutenant. With the tension in the air of late, he wondered whether the supply shipment would be enough to diffuse it. At least in part… no, Aranor could not convince himself of that with all the optimism in the world. Even now, from the storage rooms, he could hear the barking of soldiers above, the unmistakable bellow of a Goron in response. Aranor lowered his quill, scanning the inventory records one last time. Everything in its place, given he hadn’t messed up the count somewhere.

“All… alright. I think we’re ready.” Gesturing in a certain direction, Aranor’s mind fluttered in desperate attempt to regurgitate the directions to the storage halls he’d been given earlier. “You’ll be taking it that way—“

“You think we haven’t done this song and dance before, boy?” The village worker gave her comrade a backhanded slap on the bicep, a roll of the eyes. “Get a load of this guy. Assuming we don’t know how to do our job…” Words dissolved into irate grumblings. Aranor dared not retort, even with a ‘that wasn’t my intention’. Instead, with a stifled huff, he began his way towards the stairs, passing from an ominous stone tomb to the blustery rooftops. A moisture hung in the air, thick and damp, and Aranor knew without a doubt that the valley below was suffering a rainstorm. No drops could reach them here, however, and Aranor suspected that if he peeked over the edge of the tower, he would find himself far above the clouds. That was a curiosity he had no intent on reaffirming, but rather another sordid thought that clutched him every time he walked along a path with no rails or walls.

All the more incentive for Aranor to reach the Lieutenant’s office as quickly as possible. Back inside, his ribs felt more solidly intact, heart settling to a normal pace. “Lieu… Link?” His call was not answered, but Aranor thought nothing of it. Lost in thought, or fully affixed to his work, there were no shortage of reasons for the Lieutenant’s silence. With a knock on the back of the door, he waited several moments for permission to enter. Silence prevailed. Had the Lieutenant stepped out? Aranor wondered whether it would be appropriate to deposit the inventory reports on the desk, then leave… Keeta would have his head on a pike for such a move, but with everything on the Lieutenant’s plate, moving from one task to another without hesitation would be more efficient…

He knocked again, absent-mindedly. Not anticipating an answer still, Aranor’s head snapped to attention when he heard a voice that did not belong to the Lieutenant, but carried an authority nonetheless: “Come _in_ , already.”

Behind the Lieutenant’s desk, sifting through some tomes on a sad and near empty shelf, was the spindly man from the meetings and the execution. A greeting was due. The man was clearly of higher rank than he, but no words passed his lips. He did not know the man’s name, nor rank. Bending into a bow was the best salutation Aranor could muster. “My apologies… I didn’t mean to intrude, I was just looking for—“

“—The Lieutenant? Who would have imagined. At ease.” Upright, Aranor’s gaze was met with a wrinkle of the man’s nose. “Sergeant Drev. That is my name, since I would assume the Lieutenant hasn’t the _time_ to properly introduce you to your other superiors. Else he would be here, overseeing operations _properly_ , as he should be…”

It did not feel appropriate to respond to the Sergeant’s snide remarks. Aranor stood in silence. Fortunately for him, the Sergeant required no answer. Looking him over once more, spidery fingers moved from the spines of the Lieutenant’s books, to an envelope on the Lieutenant’s desk. “Make yourself useful, Private. I require this message delivered to the Captain at once. Surely, if you have just returned from storage, you can catch those in charge of the shipments, and have _them_ take it back down with them.” A lack of immediate action prompted an addition: “ _That_ was an order, Private. Time is of the essence.”

Something in the Sergeant’s eyes lit a fire beneath him. To escape the heat, Aranor rushed forward, trading off the inventory reports for a neatly sealed letter bearing the Lieutenant’s insignia. He left without further question.

 

* * *

 

Upon his return to the Lieutenant’s office, Aranor found the door shut. Knocks to the door were met with nothing, and after several minutes of waiting, knocking, waiting, Aranor figured it best to look elsewhere. Either the Sergeant was gone, or he did not wish to speak. Either way, entering the office without permission was an act beyond Aranor’s boundaries. Wandering feet took him only so far before they found purpose; if the Lieutenant was not in his office, and the guards on duty had not seen him in hours, then maybe… just _maybe_ , the temple would bear fruit. Within two weeks he had already begun to notice the Lieutenant’s tics. His erratic schedules, sudden appearances and disappearances, and affinity for the quieter branches of the tower were the most noteworthy.

Though admittedly, he was all too eager to enter through the maw of the giant. Any opportunity to see the inside, even briefly, was an opportunity he leapt upon like a ravenous beast. Since the first time he’d set foot within the sanctum, the desire to sit and read the markings on the walls was all too intense. The paintings and radiant inks did the Giants far more justice than the statues in the valley below, and the tales of their exploits felt far more fantastical when told in detailed imagery, as opposed to the folk stories passed along by his parents and grandparents.

The texture of the head’s stone tongue beneath his boots filled Aranor with a peculiar sort of giddiness. Eyes travelled first to the markings on the walls, and then to the sanctum proper in search of the Lieutenant. Yet his presence was neither there in his office, or here. But Aranor was not alone. In front of the half-constructed altar, beneath the scathing gaze of that one golden eye, stood Gwenevere. Arms folded across her chest, chin turned to the dusk above. Her eyes were closed, but Aranor needed only to take a step towards her before she took heed of him.

“Is there something you need?” Her voice felt distant.

“No— y-yes. The Lieutenant, I can’t seem to find him… and I checked his office first, this time.”

“Give me a moment. I’ll help you look. I just need to finish my prayers.”

“You’re… praying?” Aranor furrowed his brows. Even now, standing at Gwenevere’s side, she did not spare him a glance. It struck him that he shouldn’t be talking during her prayers to the Giants, and with a sheepish look, he took a step back. In spite of his interruption however, she remained lost in thought. Brows wrinkled, creases criss-crossing the bridge of her nose. When eyelids fluttered open, he could not restrain himself from asking: “Are you alright?”

Her nod was unconvincing. Especially when she had yet to look him in the eyes, staring up at the golden altar instead. Aranor could feel words hanging on her tongue, an inaudible dragging of her feet. Or was he simply being awkward? He opened his mouth to break the silence, but Gwenevere interjected before he had a chance to speak.

“Would you think me a fool for saying that I feel a dark omen in the air, Aranor?” A pause. “I don’t mean in regards to the unrest.”

Well, Aranor reasoned, there were still plenty of issues to feel uneasy about. “The spies?”

“No.” Yet he suspected otherwise, just like her nod struck him as a flimsy facade. The sooner the problem was dealt with, the sooner many of them would be able to sleep a little easier. It hardened his resolve to work as hard as he could. Here, he could make a difference. He could help against the cloaked menaces without fighting them on the front lines… with this in mind, Gwenevere’s heavy spirits served to lighten his own. A gentle, hesitant hand came to rest on her shoulder. However brief, he gave it a pat, then withdrew, wondering if he had perhaps gotten too friendly. She did not seem to mind.

In fact, she hardly seemed to mind his presence, or anything around her, at all.

  

* * *

 

Dusk had grown to dark, and he had since parted ways with Gwenevere. Still no trace of the Lieutenant, though none of the guard appeared to be particularly concerned. There had been a problem with one of the lifts, a potential Garo sighting on one of the lower levels— he could have been dealing with either one of those issues, or something else entirely. Was there really much else to do, other than sleep? He had no other direct commands for the day, so he could not help himself when the option presented itself to him. If the Lieutenant needed him, he would likely call.

In any case, he needed this. Time to peel off layers of armour from his tired body, and time to sit in a basin of lukewarm water. Though the bath itself harboured some stress in itself— with rumours of special treatment wafting around, he didn’t need more scorn from hogging one of few washtubs available to them. Those nagging worries kept him from falling asleep in the water, at the very least, and kept him moving until he had the chance to slink into bed. This time he was not the only one beneath the covers, but it did not spare him a sour look from Talian, perched in the corner by a table.

Were the others not asleep, he knew he would have faced some unpleasant words. But the four Giants were sending him quite a few little blessings these days, and Aranor refused to complain. Watching the flicker of a dying torch by the door, eyelids grew heavy, and with little coaxing, Aranor slept.

 

* * *

 

The uproar stirred him from his sleep. Shouts of outrage, arguments he could not quite make out. Aranor rose, alongside the few others who remained in their beds at this hour of the day. It was a slow ascension at first, but quickly turned to a race of donning his armour as quickly as possible when he heard the word ‘Garo’ on the tips of everyone’s tongues. “What’s going on?” He asked, but the question was futile. Lost to ears that weren’t listening, minds that had shut off at the mention of the enemy. Aranor slid past the tangle of half-conscious bodies and into the corridor— his destination being the Lieutenant’s office. There was no need to go far, however. Rounding a corner, he found himself face-to-face with the Lieutenant’s striking blue gaze.

“Aranor. Good… you’re awake.” With a gentle tug on the sleeve, the Lieutenant gestured for him to keep going in the direction he’d been heading, with Link now at his side. Aranor struggled to match his pace. “I need you to inform the watches that there’s been an attack near the lower lifts. Private Fetch was assaulted a few hours ago. He isn’t going to recover.”

Blood ran cold. Aranor froze in his tracks, but the Lieutenant didn’t stop. “You have your orders,” he added from a distance, “I’m relying on you.”

One of their own? Dead? Surely that wasn’t what the Lieutenant meant. Not going to recover… that could refer to a serious injury, or might be a gross overreaction to the situation. Would the Lieutenant overreact? Aranor could hardly fix his mind on a single thought. How could they have let this happen? The Garo never went that far. Lungs felt empty, air squeezed out by a nonexistent blow to the stomach. _Move_ , he told himself, but his feet remained where they were.

_Would you think me a fool for saying that I feel a dark omen in the air?_

Gwenevere’s voice cut the ropes binding his legs. Aranor started forward, walk turning to a run until he emerged out onto the upper platforms. Eyes searched first for the Lieutenant, but he had vanished into the early rays of the morning. Next came Gwenevere, but when he found neither, his mind settled on the task ahead of him. Warn the others. Remove the Garo’s most valuable resource: the element of surprise. Giving orders was a peculiar sensation. One Aranor didn’t feel fit to handle, but mercifully the news proved effective in motivating the others regardless of his tone. _Alert the others in your section that we’ve been attacked by the Garo._

The labourers were stirring. Drawn like moths to flame, they crept from their dormitories and lingered in the doorway. Always in small flocks, never apart. Aranor had every intention of ignoring them and continuing on his set path, but an Ikanian couple cut him off in his path. “By the four Gods, what is going on? No one is telling us anything!”

A Goron fast approaching added: “If there’s danger, should we not know of it?”

Frustration in their voices, combined with numbers… had it merely been one worker, Aranor would have just shoved past. Or walked around, more likely. But the back of his throat tightened in face of their questioning. “A guard has been… _seriously injured_ by one of the hooded spies.”

He knew the instant the words had left his lips that telling them had been a mistake. A ripple of confusion passed through them, before eyes widened, bodies tensed. “The Garo?! They went that far and nobody thought to _tell us_?! We don’t have weapons to defend ourselves with! Don’t-- don’t you _walk away_!”

Aranor had no other choice. Fleeing wasn’t the ideal, but it was all he could think to do in the mounting chaos. There were better ways to break the news. A smoother way to handle a rapidly intensifying situation. Stupid, stupid… he should have kept his mouth shut! But surely, no one would know _he_ had been the one to let it slip to the labourers. Surely, they would have discovered one way or another.

One panicked thought bled into the next, and again, Aranor listened to Gwenevere’s voice. Dark omens, followed by a stealth attack on the tower. He hadn’t seen her in the dormitories. There was a very good chance she was on patrol, though paranoia festered in his gut like a maggot in carrion. With a vague sense of direction, he slipped from the building crowds and into the stairwell toward the lower passages. Voices soon faded until there remained no sound, with the exception of Aranor’s hurried footsteps. Yes, this place felt mildly familiar. If Gwenevere were taking her regular patrol, she ought to be around here.

A temptation struck him. To call out her name, see if he could get a response to settle his nerves. But logic got the better of him. Noise would alert Gwenevere to his position, but it would most certainly alert the Garo if they remained in the shadows, as they were like to do. Aranor was by no means a sneak. Quieting his steps to the best of his ability, he hoped it was enough to ward off any potential predators. If a properly trained soldier like Fetch had fallen to the Garo…

Aranor came to a halt. A muted murmur met his ears. That, or it had simply been the wind. His breath went still, a cold stab up his spine at the possibility of confrontation. By the four Gods, he hoped it was merely the wind.

No, no. It was a voice. He could tell that much. A familiar one, at that. Gwenevere? Singing again? Even with a budding confidence that he had located her, Aranor remained silent. Slinking through the halls, he followed the noises that tickled the ends of his ears. Hard to decipher even as he grew closer and closer. He settled his back against a wall and strained to listen. At last, he heard words.

“I believe this is the best course of action.” Gwenevere spoke, not sung. “The Lieutenant… if there is even a chance of bolstering our forces, it would lie with him.”

Brow furrowed. The Lieutenant? Gwenevere took her patrol alone, and it didn’t sound like she was chattering to herself. Gut twisted at an unfamiliar response. “There’s no more time for playing it safe. I can feel it, and you can feel it. Something must be done. Something more than tonight.”

“Yes, I agree… I’m sorry. Everything feels so delicate. As though everything will shatter if we don’t make the right, precise moves…”

None of the conversation made sense. Furthermore, it did little to ease his nerves. Aranor felt as though he might throw up, between the thought of a murder among their ranks, the confusion on the platforms, the ominous exchange that he couldn’t understand. Then the unfamiliar voice spoke again, and Aranor made a silent gag, his nerves forcing bile up into the back of his throat.

“Hold. I can feel it… we are not alone.”


End file.
